Boundaries
by Raven Ehtar
Summary: Throw yourself into life and break all of the rules along the way, or stick to them like glue while not caring for your own safety as much as you should? Two very different men deal with the tragedies of their lives in different ways, yet still come to depend on each other. Possible trigger: suicide. One-shot, STID spoilers, Kirk/Spock. K/S Big Bang entry.


_**A/N:**__ This is my entry for the 2013 K/S Big Bang being held on LiveJournal. My very first time participating! Interesting experience, even working as a solo with no team. Hard deadlines are a mite stressful. ^^;_

_**Betas:**__ SkyTurtle._

_**Music:**__  
_No Prisoners, Only Trophies _by Steve Jablonsky. (Mostly during the last three segments on repeat.)_

_**Warnings:**__ Mentions of suicide and MAJOR SOILERS for __Star Trek Into Darkness__. In fact it would be best to have seen and be familiar with the film before reading. _

_**Disclaimer:**__ I do not own __Star Trek__, nor the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story._

…

Boundaries

Raven Ehtar

…

In the heat of the afternoon, the air shimmered and the ocher landscape wavered before the eye, as though one were standing before a blacksmith's forge.

It was only fitting, as they stood within sight of the Forge, that great expanse of Vulcan desert known for its treachery and difficulty in crossing. Little lived there, either planet or animal, and no water flowed in the open. Anyone caught in the Forge would be tested harshly by the blowing sands and the harsh Vulcan sun beating down on them. Modern equipment often failed to function there, the canyon wracked by electrical sandstorms and geomagnetic instabilities. It was a place no one entered lightly, only visited for scientific study or to test one's mettle. The Vulcan Forge was where the youth of the planet came during their _kahs-wan_, the ten day test of courage that marked the transition from child to adult. It was where legend said that Surak, Vulcan mentor who brought the age of logic and pushed back barbarism, had begun his pilgrimage, quenching the blood of war in the Forge.

It was starkly, compellingly beautiful.

It was not illogical to appreciate beauty, and the Forge possessed a unique kind of beauty for those who could see it. Spock, even so young as he was, had heard many bemoan how harsh, empty and arid it was, its unforgiving nature. He had even heard it said by off-worlders that the planet went a long way to explaining the attitudes of its people.

And perhaps it did, Spock privately thought. The Vulcans were a species that could do without much in the way of the embellishment that many others seemed to require. They prized simplicity, the elegant lines of logic and reason. Quite possibly it was a sensibility they learned from the desert.

A breeze, baked oven hot and spiced with the smell of wild desert plants brushed lightly over Spock's face, ruffling his precise blue-black hair and tickling the very tips of his pointed ears. It was a fine day, he thought. It was fortunate his family lived on the edge of Shi'Kahr, far from the urban bustle and so close to the Forge and its stoic majesty.

There was a satisfied sigh, and it took a moment before Spock realized that it was not he who had breathed it.

The boy looked over, further along the gentle curve of the patio. Leaning against the railing, staring out into the glowing sands of the Forge with a blissful smile was his mother, Amanda Grayson. She was human, but a human who had lived on Vulcan for many years and had come to an appreciation of the planet's natural splendor that almost rivaled the native species. She may have been looked down on as little more than an intruder by the majority of the population, but in truth she had adapted to Vulcan and its ways better than many humans could ever hope to. Even at home, when she could be forgiven the luxury of behaving in a more human way, Amanda kept herself just about as restrained as she did in public. She smiled more, a small display of emotion that was as natural to her as it was vulgar to Vulcans, but little else. Even in dress, she wore the loose, traditional robes of a relaxed day spent at home. Though to be sure, the bright touches of blues and greens at the hems of sleeves, collar and belt were entirely hers, as was the wide brimmed hat she wore to protect her eyes from the sun's rays.

She tilted her head towards him, dark eyes smiling along with her lips, affection evident in every curve of her features. It was an expression that would normally fill him with conflict. As her son and part human, he loved to see her smile, to smile _at him_, and his own emotions would soar up high to meet her. But as his father's son, a child of Vulcan, he was vaguely offended by her show of feeling and by the reaction she elicited within him. It was an unfair dichotomy, and an accepted fact of his young life.

But right now… Spock felt only peace. Contentment. And that was an acceptable state of being for both halves.

A deep snort made Spock look away from his mother to the heap of fur lying out as flat as possible on the adobe patio. I-Chaya, the family sehlat, was enjoying the day in the best way he knew: by snoozing through the hottest part. He was another thing that came from the Forge, the big, long toothed creatures seeming to thrive there. His father had caught I-Chaya and tamed him as a cub. That was a very long time ago, now. I-Chaya wasn't as spry as he once was, and took more and more to sleeping through large portions of his days.

It was all familiar, comfortable. It was an afternoon out of hundreds just like it, a long march of days stretching from his first glimmerings of memory to the very last.

His very last memory…

Spock frowned, uncertainly settling over him. There was something, he knew not what, that he ought to remember…

A faint sound, that wasn't really a sound, tickled at the edge of Spock's mind, reminding him of something. Something terrible, he could sense that much, but nothing else.

It was all the forewarning he got.

_So loud!_ The shrieking of an entire room, an entire building, an entire _planet_ all screaming in unison. Spock clamped his hands to his ears, but it was no good. It was _inside_ his head. All of the dread, confusion and even pain was clear in their screams of mortal terror, all of it his, whether or not he wanted it. Covering his ears, curling in on himself, none did a thing to stem them.

Worse, he could feel the _emotion_ behind the shrieks, dragging over his nerves until they were raw. All of the training to control his emotions and give himself to logic, all of it was gone in that single, overwhelming wave that broke over his mind. It was more than his small body could take. He might have screamed himself, his eyes squeezed shut to hide himself away. There was no logic in this, and no hiding. And then,

_Nothing_.

As abruptly as it begun, there was nothing at all.

No terror, no pain, no confusion. Not even the confounding sound that was not sound. Spock's mind was empty, and that was so much worse.

It was not only the silent shrieks that had disappeared. It took the boy a moment to pinpoint what else had changed, still curled tightly on himself on the patio floor. In leaving him, the screams had taken something with them. Something that had been so constant and prevalent that he hadn't noticed it even existed. It was the subconscious ebb and buzz of an entire race, just palpable on the edge of his mind, the empathic presence that told him he was not alone. It was gone, all of it. Torn from his mind, leaving only a yawning, stinging emptiness in its wake.

Spock felt an illogical, hysterical desire to laugh as a small voice within him quipped how he had always been questioned just how Vulcan he really was. Here was the answer.

Terror of his own budding up quickly, Spock opened his eyes, seeking out his mother.

She was gone, as was I-Chaya.

_Everything_ was gone. Spock floated alone in darkness, oddly cold. Far away he could make out a glow. After a moment he saw it was Vulcan, the way it looked when viewed from space.

As he watched, the very planet began to collapse in on itself.

This time, the scream Spock heard was the scream of the planet itself as it died.

…

Spock rose from unconsciousness quietly, calmly.

Nightmares were not unknown to the Vulcan people. In theory any creature that was capable of dreaming was also capable of nightmares. It was only a question of content and the connection to the dreamer they made that determined if a dream was pleasant or not, that tipped it from the harmless reordering of memories to taunting, threatening images. Vulcans were not immune to them.

But if they were not immune to them, Vulcans were at least better equipped to handle them. Their disciplines lent themselves to other realms of self-control, so while the dreams could be disturbing or unsettling, it was rare for them to progress to such an extreme as to elicit fear. Vulcan children, in their training, were often given the practice of lucid dreaming to assist them in controlling their emotional responses, to perceive even dreams through reason and logic.

This wasn't to say that it was impossible for such things to happen.

When Spock opened his eyes, the room was very dim, set to a level that made sleeping comfortable but not so low as to be impossible to see. He blinked, allowing his vision to adjust. Once able to make out the furnishings and the décor, it took a moment to remember that he was not in his own quarters. His rooms, small and standardized as they were, were unmistakably the living space of a Vulcan. Spock had dedicated a considerable amount of his sparse free time to collect and arrange those artifacts that he could find to his bare quarters. After the extinction of Vulcan, it had seemed like the only right thing to do.

But this room, when Spock's eyes adjusted, was bare of the warmly hued drapes and tapestries, the ritual weapons and the small statues he had accumulated.

This was not his room. He turned his head on the pillow.

And he was not alone.

Not a foot away was a face that had become incredibly familiar to him. Relaxed, resting in a pool of shadow and rumpled blankets, Uhura had not even stirred when Spock had woken, or during his nightmare. She slept on, peaceful and calm, completely unaware of her bedmate's troubled sleep.

It wasn't a regular practice for the two of them to share quarters. It wasn't even often enough to be considered 'occasional.' It was the general practice of human couples to share a bed at least on occasion, and was not forbidden by Starfleet so long as the relationship did not interfere with their duties… but it was very much a human custom. Vulcan pairs held off on such things until the union became more official, but in attempt to meet Uhura halfway culturally, Spock had agreed to this compromise. It was small enough, and only one of many that they had found it necessary to make, but…

As though feeling the attention on her even in her sleep, Uhura sighed and rolled a little closer to Spock, her hand reaching out, seeking his body heat.

Spock automatically shied away from the touch. When she failed to find him, Uhura settled back again with another sigh.

Moving as silently as possible, Spock swung his legs over the edge of the bunk, bare feet striking the cold floor and making him shiver. The entire ship was minutely climate controlled, but it was always too cold for him. The optimum settings – temperature, gravity, even oxygen levels – were all set with human needs in mind. For Spock those settings were within tolerable levels, but they were all just off enough to leave him uncomfortable. Always it was a touch too cold, a little too humid, the air almost flavored with oxygen. It had been the same while he had been at Starfleet Academy on Earth. The discomfort of the atmosphere had been almost as bad as the discomfort of unfamiliarity.

But then, when the alternative to discomfort and unfamiliarity was memories, the familiarity of a home that no longer existed… Spock rubbed his fingers together absently. Come to that, he'd rather be cold and uncomfortable.

Standing quietly, he left Uhura to the bed sheets as he strode to the washroom. He needed some distance to gather his thoughts.

It was difficult, especially recently, to remember the finer points of his training as a child, those tools he had developed to recognize, compartmentalize and rationalize any emotional responses. It grew more difficult as the days passed, rather than less, to maintain his control. Spock found that it took very little to loosen the tenuous grip he kept by sheer stubbornness, and any small assistance he could find he took readily. It was why he so often avoided Uhura's subtle – and less subtle – hints to share beds. Her nearness, her very _humanness_ weakened his already flagging control. Vulcans were touch telepaths, and while not _every_ touch meant sharing thoughts, while asleep there was little defense against intrusive thought patterns or foreign emotions. Sharing a bed inevitably led to small slips of his control, chips in his armor, dreams turning to nightmares.

Easier, safer, to sleep alone.

The trouble arose when trying to explain any of this to Nyota, why it was he did not wish to share her company during the night. He could see it in her eyes every time he demurred that she was disappointed. She did try to understand, to make allowances for the difference in race and in culture. The struggle in her to be patient was plain to see. Sometimes it was just easier to give in to her than to see that look in her eyes again.

But it never took long to remember why it was he avoided it, as his mental barriers weakened with her nearness, and the memories crept back, closer than ever in his dreams.

So close that they still clung to him on awakening. He could still see, smell and feel them even with his eyes wide open.

Staring into the washroom mirror, he saw now what he had seen not so long ago: his own face, haggard, smudged and smeared with red dust and soil. He could still feel it, the light dusting of it all through his hair, coating his cheeks, the grit between his fingers when he rubbed them together, packed under his nails. He remembered when he had washed the dirt from his skin, the last time he would ever touch his home world, and watched it all swirl down the drain. He'd stared, unable to look away from the haunting parallel to the world as it had been destroyed, swirling down into the artificial singularity.

Gone forever.

And yet not. The memory still dogged him, asleep or awake, however hard he fought to keep them away. The soil never left his hands, it never truly washed away. He had but to twitch his fingers and he could feel the coarse sand between them. He had but to look at them and he could see them still stained red with the final dust of Vulcan.

The red of Vulcan. Red as his human side, the blood of his mother.

Still on his hands.

Spock twisted the taps savagely and plunged his hands beneath the flow of water. Cold, ice cold to rinse away the phantom sensation of soil caked in the prints of his hands. He knew it was illogical to wash away what was not there; he could hardly escape the knowledge that his actions were irrational, but his fine logic was all trumped by the feel of red between his fingers.

…

Starfleet Academy, for all of its laudable qualities, had severely limited the average students' appreciation for the city of San Francisco, Kirk decided.

There were, of course, the obvious sights to be seen. Those historical, technological, cultural, architectural, or any number of other 'urals' that every Tom, Dick and Stonn saw when they came to the city. But besides the city's long history as a purely human place, since becoming home to Starfleet Headquarters it had become ground zero for visiting alien races. There were other ports around the globe, but none so well equipped or so often used as the one in the Fleet's own backyard.

San Francisco, long held as one of Earth's most laid back and accepting cities, had opened its arms to the visitors from across the stars and done its best to make them feel welcome. Humans adapted well to their new neighbors, and after a little initial friction, settled into mutually beneficial arrangements. In this particular case: business arrangements.

Once outside the Fleet's direct sphere of control, a veritable souk of businesses had sprung up, all catering to the needs and tastes of clientele many light years from home. All tastefully done, of course. No one would dare besmirch Earth's reputation on its very doorstop, the city where so many gained their first impressions of the human race. And eventually, as visitors stayed for longer visits, and some to live permanently, more businesses and homes sprung up, many run by the various aliens themselves.

The result of this was a melting pot of a mix never seen before. There was an incredible array of sights to see, wares to purchase and entertainments to imbibe from the mix of species in the sprawling port city. Living, working or, as Kirk had done for several years, going to school there, it would have been impossible to avoid taking in some of the hodge-podge culture. It was expected that if you lived in San Francisco for more than four months, your tastes would naturally broaden out. It wasn't even noteworthy, for example, for your average day to consist of a typical Earth breakfast, then a light, traditionally Vulcan luncheon, and then to finish the day with an Orionian dinner, possibly accompanied with some Romulan brandy – of questionable legality.

But while the city was open to and strongly encouraged the broadening of horizons, Jim was finding that the busy lifestyle of a full time student had made it impossible to give the big, beautiful metropolis the attention it really deserved. He'd thought at the time he'd given it some justice, even so, going to some pretty heroic lengths to explore and experience all he could while still remaining in a performance score bracket that baffled his instructors.

But, no. There was more to the city than he would have thought possible, only available to him now that he was no longer a slave to a suffering student's schedule. At the moment he was working his way through what passed for San Francisco's seedy underbelly, which wasn't really 'seedy' so much as it was shamelessly colorful. The further off the main roads and the later the hour, the more shameless it became. The after-dark entertainments of some cultures put even Earth's more debauched cities of shame.

It really was too bad, he thought to himself through the comfortable fuzziness brought on by the creative chemical creations of half a dozen planets currently running through his bloodstream, that as a student he had been too busy to even be aware of all of this, much less participate in it. Too busy, too burdened with the responsibilities and ambitions of a young man – read: young punk – transforming himself into an officer material.

The place he was in now, for example, with the incredibly sumptuous décor, ascetically arranged and filled up with folk all relaxing and taking part in that oh-so traditional activity of taverns across the galaxy, was just the kind of place an exhausted, stressed out Fleet student could use to unwind after a stressful day.

Kirk looked down at his drink – what number was this? Five? Six? – and frowned to himself.

There were some who insisted on pointing out to him that since becoming Captain of the _Enterprise_, the flagship of the Fleet, he should be even more burdened than before. Bones' face rose up treacherously in his mind's eye.

Well, that was the whole point, wasn't it?

Since taking on the role of Captain, his stress levels had been through the roof. The expectations of those around him, which polarized into the impossibly high and the dismally low, weighed on him every step he took. He had to fill a role he'd still been years out from getting in the normal way of things, during a time of huge upheaval and tragedy, and had to do everything more than perfect if he expected to keep those people who had the power to take his command away from him happy and placated. With just how much strain he was under, it would be ridiculous to think that he _wouldn't_ partake when the opportunity presented itself.

So here he was, enjoying all San Francisco had to offer while they were docked at home. He'd put off what duties he could, delegated the rest, 'forgot' those one or two he could do neither with and, rather than remaining aboard, dove into the city night life with abandon. It was brief abandon, but as complete a one as he could manage in a single night.

He just needed a breath of air now and then, some time away from structure and rules and _endless_ procedure to remember what it was like to be a human being. What it was like to be _alive_. He loved being Captain, he could imagine being nowhere else, but immersed in the day to day, mind numbing doldrums of regulation, he felt like he was going to calcify, become a human shaped machine made to take in, process and spit back out endless streams of paperwork. What he really dreamed of, sailing his beautiful lady out into the stars, free and clear, still seemed very far away.

He downed his drink – it buzzed all the way down – and forced his shoulders to relax. He just needed a little time to himself.

His short command had been full up of death. He could use some hardcore living to make up for it.

Looking up from his drink, Jim caught the eye of a pretty girl. Human, but with a cosmetic skin enhancement that made her a perfect glittering gold. She smiled warmly at him. Jim smiled back, his chemically lightened blood warmed even more.

One night every once in a while wasn't much. One night to just forget everything and really feel like himself. _Alive_.

…

"Jim, it's not our place to interfere! Our mission is to observe, document and _move on_."

Jim glared at his CMO. No matter how long he had command of the _Enterprise_, he didn't think he would ever really rule over Dr. Leonard McCoy. To the old country doctor he would ever be the young bumpkin rushing headlong into disaster, throwing himself and anyone he could drag with him into 'darkness and death,' unless the doctor could personally stop him.

It made giving the man orders a real headache, especially when he seemed to grouse simply on principle. Nor did it help that he insisted on doing so on the Bridge, for everyone to hear.

"Circumstances have changed," he said, keeping his voice as reasonable as he could. "We were sent to study the planet, yes, but no one knew just how unstable the tectonics are, how vulnerable the Nibirans are at this point in their development. Given what we've learned, I don't see how we could be blamed for acting."

Bones pulled a face at him, the same face he would give whenever Jim rationalized putting off assignments until the last minute at the Academy. It was oddly nostalgic. The older man looked ready to continue his argument, but was interrupted before he could get out another word.

It was a smooth, almost inflectionless voice, a sharp contrast to McCoy's, which Jim was getting used to having at his shoulder. "Captain, the circumstances have not changed. We were given the task to observe and report characteristics of the planet and its people. That the volcanic activity on Nibiru is volatile is simply one of those characteristics we are to report."

Before turning around, Jim rolled his eyes. The only time his Chief Medical Officer and his First Officer seemed to agree on anything was when they both decided to gang up on _him_. It would have been endearing if it wasn't so incredibly irritating.

He turned to glare daggers at his Commander, knowing the look would have no effect on the unflappable Vulcan. It never did. Spock stood in front of his science station, hands clasped behind him, face completely guileless. Not for the first time, Jim wondered what sort of thoughts that immobile face was masking, what emotion he was keeping on a tight reign.

A little of his own control slipped when he replied to his First Officer, annoyance making him bite out his words. "Are you saying that you would prefer to see these people, who are just starting to make some significant strides towards civilization, completely wiped out? That you would rather see the evolution of Nibiru start over, if it ever recovered enough to at all?"

Spock's head tilted almost imperceptibly, and Jim was thankful it wasn't the usual eyebrow raise he got. "What I might personally prefer had no bearing on our mission or course of action, Captain," he said, perfectly deadpan. "We are a Federation vessel, on a Federation mission, and in situations such as this, the courses of action we are permitted to take are explicitly lined out."

"Starfleet is about exploration, pushing boundaries. Out here there can hardly be orders for all situations, it would be impossible to predict every possibility."

Spock remained unperturbed. "This is undoubtedly so, but General Order One is very clear on this one."

"Please don't quote—"

"'No starship may interfere with the normal development of any alien life or society.'"

Kirk sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. Pressure was building behind his eyes again. "'Normal development' or not, this isn't right, Spock. How could it really be considered interfering with their development when we're saving them so they _can_ develop?"

Spock didn't even bother pulling that bit of fractured logic apart. "It is not for us to alter their fate. We cannot act in this matter, Captain."

Jim bit the inside of his cheek to keep the first retort that came to mind to himself. It was infuriating, sometimes, to have a Vulcan as his second in command. He knew Spock _could_ feel, the elder and alternate Spock had clued him into that, as had a certain violent exchange on the Bridge, but he _wouldn't_ allow himself to. It made debating with him an exercise in patience. He couldn't appeal to Spock's feelings on any matter, even if he knew the Vulcan had them, because he would have them incased in ice. For a desert race, Vulcans were remarkably cold.

He looked back again at Bones, who at least looked a little sympathetic, if just as unmovable.

Jim ground his teeth, dug his fingernails into his palms. He was Captain now, which meant he was beholden to the regulations and orders of Starfleet. If he wanted to keep his Captaincy and his beautiful lady the _Enterprise_, then he would bow to those regulations and do what he could within them. He wasn't just a genius, repeat offender punk tearing through Iowa anymore. He had responsibilities much bigger than himself, his ego…

The pain in his palms grew.

There were some prices that were too high, he decided. And he would be damned if he would start out his career with a repeat of the same mistake.

"Spock," he said, his voice pitched low, turning to look him directly in the eye. "General Order or not, I refuse to let _this_ planet, or _these_ people die."

Spock's stance, already at attention, went incredibly rigid. The Bridge became very silent and tense. Those members of the crew that had been at least pretending to not be listening into their commanders' debate by going about their normal duties all froze in place. Out of the corner of his eye, Jim saw Sulu and Chekov exchange a worried glance. At her station, Uhura had been watching the whole time, attention evenly divided between them, but was now fixated on Spock. Behind him, he felt Bones grow tense, wound up tight like a wire.

All of Jim's focus was on Spock. He did not look away.

He didn't need to say it, what it was that was on all of their minds. The one word that had, almost literally, the weight of worlds attached to it. It rang out loud without having to be voiced.

_Vulcan._

Home to billions, of a proud and venerable people. The world that had died. The world they had failed to save.

If he looked around, Jim knew that he would see the same thought reflected painfully in the eyes of every one of his crew. The memory of that desert planet, of the day when it had been destroyed, clung to them all. To some only vaguely, but to others there were stark remembrances to haunt them years from now. Plunging through space to the planet's surface, sprinting through corridors, running over the heaving earth, the terror of death approaching, of death being denied, or death triumphing… it was all there. The very dust of Vulcan was with them still, clogging their throats, stinging their eyes. None more profoundly than the _Enterprise_'s second in command.

Jim noticed that Spock's gaze had gone vacant, staring into some other place far from the Bridge. His hands had come clasped, the fingers of one fidgeting unconsciously.

He knew Spock could feel, but even if he couldn't, logically he couldn't _want_ to leave Nibiru to its fate. The loss of life was one of those things that Vulcans found abhorrent. What was one of their proverbs? _'Can you return life to what you kill? Then be slow to take life.'_ Jim was pretty sure that applied to allowing death as well as causing it.

Whether it was regulation or not, the extinction of the Nibiran people could not be what Spock really wanted. Spock agreed with him, Jim _knew_ he did, it was just the damnable rules getting in his way. Jim could say to hell with rules when it came right down to it, but Spock… he was either unable or unwilling to do the same.

Well, Jim could make things easier for him there. If Spock couldn't _break_ the rules, then maybe he could _bend_ them a little.

"Alright, Spock, how about this? We figure out a way to nullify the volcano, something to keep it from going Doomsday on the natives, but _without_ the Nibirans ever knowing we were there. We'll be saving an entire species and if they're never the wiser of us, then they develop just as nature would have intended. Minus one genocidal disaster."

Spock, who had come back from whatever cloud he had been on, pursed his lips at this line of reasoning. His fingers stilled in their fidgeting, though the rest of him had yet to relax. "I need hardly point out that what you propose, Captain, still classifies as 'interference,' and Starfleet will undoubtedly see it that way." He paused. Jim let the silence stretch, let Spock think. Even when meeting him halfway, it was still going against Starfleet, and doubtless difficult for him. He just hoped some of that rebellion he had shown the Vulcan High Council years ago was still there.

When he spoke again, his tone nearly betraying a hint of glad relief, Jim's knees went a little weak. "However, what you suggest seems more in keeping with the spirit of Starfleet's mission and General Order One than a strict adherence to its letter."

The grin that split over Jim's face felt as though it would take in his ears. Getting Spock to agree with him, to help him in actually disobeying an order and being some big damned heroes – that felt good. In his euphoric high, he even imagined he saw Spock's lips twitch in a replying smile.

"Wait," Bones said behind him, disbelieving. "You don't mean we're actually going to _do_ this, do you?"

"Oh, yeah!" Jim crowed triumphantly. He turned to the rest of the Bridge crew, and was glad to see his own enthusiasm reflected back at him in their grinning faces. They were going to be some big damn heroes.

"Now let's cook up a plan, people!"

…

It had been a mad plan from the start, Spock mused with detachment, watching as a particularly large heap of rock was carried by in the flow of molten magma.

It seemed that any course of action Captain Kirk had the smallest bit of input to would take on wild, improbable aspects. Humans were compulsive creatures, driven by moment by moment impulses, and Jim Kirk was one human that was especially prone to that. It was something everyone took note of upon meeting him, and something that Spock, if pressed, might admit to having been annoyed with for quite some time. Jim Kirk's methods were unconventional, that was obvious from the start with the way he had thwarted the Kobayashi Maru, a test Spock had taken some quiet pride in designing. He had been put out to watch it beaten. Beaten by a swaggering, cocky and belligerent young cadet.

Still… it worked. Spock had been compelled, as he was drawn into Kirk's plans, to admit that however unconventional or fundamentally undisciplined he was, it worked for him. He had beaten the Kobayashi Maru, and he later beat Nero and saved Earth. It was because of his – with Dr. McCoy's help – 'unconventional' means of getting himself aboard the _Enterprise_ that they had known something was seriously wrong on Vulcan, and saved their ship from partaking in the same fate.

Through some strange alchemy, the impulsive, impetuous nature of Jim Kirk, together with a genuine love of his ship, his crew, the ideals of Starfleet, and the oft overlooked 'by the book' knowledge he had, all combined to make him an effective Captain. Those qualities which, by all logic, should have had him tossed out of the Fleet entirely, or at the least forever relegated him to a position far away from any sort of command responsibility, worked to make him one of the most promising starship Captains in the Federation. Somehow, he _worked_, and what he did, however unorthodox, it worked, too. His crew followed him willingly because they had seen that and put their faith in him. By degrees, Spock had done the same.

He had even allowed himself to believe that _this_ plan, another product stamped with Captain Kirk's unmistakable style, would also work. That this insane course of action would succeed.

And to be perfectly fair, it _was_ going to work. Nibiru and its people would be saved, with one small, relatively insignificant price to pay for it.

"_Spock, we're talking about your _life_!"_

All things considered, a single life was a small price to pay when considered against an entire species. The fact that they had a chance to pull it off at all was incredible enough, to expect to do so without some kind of sacrifice paid in return would be too much.

As the one sent into the volcano he had known the risk to his own person was substantially greater than anyone else's. He had volunteered to be the one to set off the device not only because he was the one most qualified, but _because_ it posed the greatest danger. No one else should have come so close to death when Spock was willing to himself.

Suicide was not acceptable in Vulcan culture excepting in some very specific circumstances, and given the current state of the Vulcan population, even those were being trumped in the interest of the species. It would be hard enough for the Vulcan people to recover from their near extinction without perfectly healthy and genetically viable members killing themselves off.

But it wouldn't be suicide when there simply was no way to save him. General Order One, the Prime Directive, would not allow the _Enterprise_ to rescue him, as that would entail allowing the Nibirans to see their ship. There was no possibility of Spock saving himself from his predicament, so there was only one course of action available to him: clear his mind, and calmly await his death, brought to him either by the rising lava flow or the reaction of the Rankine nullifier still counting down at his feet. It was the way of his decimated people to accept the inevitable. And if there was, lurking at the back of Spock's mind, some small and traitorous vestige of relief at his approaching end, then he was the only one who ever need know about it.

Ignoring the device that would simultaneously save the world as it killed him – unless the volcano did so first – Spock wiped himself of emotion, held out his arms, and waited for nothingness to overwhelm him.

…

Getting the rest of the crew, or at least those members directly in control of the ship and therefore with some considerable weight to gainsay him, to say 'screw it' to the Prime Directive and go in to rescue Spock wasn't very difficult. In fact there was barely away resistance at all, token if anything. More difficult had been in deciding _how_ exactly they were to go about fishing the First Officer from the volcano without killing themselves in the process.

The hardest part, Jim decided, had taken place inside his own head, in debating the course of action he should take. The one he would normally turn to in this situation was the one he was trying to save, and he had made his own feelings on the matter, or whatever Vulcans substituted for feelings, perfectly clear.

"_The rule cannot be broken under any circumstances."_

That was his First Officer, sticking to the rules like glue and never budging. If Jim didn't know better, he would have said that Spock took a positive delight in reminding him of every Order and Directive in the book, and pointing out to him in how many ways he would be breaking them just by waking up in the morning. It was quite irritating, but in a way it was a good thing. It kept him from making too many rookie mistakes. Spock's support made him a better Captain and he knew it. He might be thought of as reckless, but he wasn't stupid, or blind.

His dilemma, then, lay in whether he should follow the man's advice or not. He often turned to Spock for council, and in this case it was to leave him behind.

There was also the issue of honoring what could easily become Spock's last request.

It was one of those tough decisions prospective Captains were warned about. It was several months after the first, and Spock had given him a second 'Kobayashi Maru' that was even harder. But then, he'd beaten that one.

The decision became much simpler when Jim thought of it in a slightly different way. He tried to imagine what it would be like on the Bridge _without_ the pointy eared bastard standing at his shoulder. Jim tried to picture having someone else as his First Officer, someone who would no doubt be qualified for the job… but who wouldn't be _Spock_. He would lose all he had gained the last few months, the budding friendship and the working camaraderie. He would never know the deep bond the elder Spock had hinted was possible, that he was pretty sure he had felt at least the echoes of in his memories.

"_The rule cannot be broken…"_

Well, screw that. Following the rules was never his strongest point, and damned if he was going to let a rule, a stupid _rule_, have him abandoning his friend.

Panting in the doorway of the Transporter Room, Jim stared at the figure resolving itself on one of the pads. McCoy, forced to more strenuous physical activity than he was used to the whole day, stood beside him, waiting to see if his more lauded skills would be needed.

The figure, suited up for extreme temperatures and making the air shimmer around him in a heat mirage, was definitely his First Officer. But beyond knowing that the man was whole and aboard the ship, it was impossible to tell his condition.

Jim was surprised at the anxiety that hit him, the strength behind his worry as he visually scanned the suited Spock. He'd broken the unbreakable rule to save him, but it wasn't until he was standing in the same room as him, still unable to see his real state that Jim realized just how afraid he was for him. He wanted desperately to check the Vulcan himself, to be reassured through contact that he was safe, that he was really there, but the heat held him back.

"Spock, are you alright?"

There was a pause, and then Spock's voice finally came from inside the suit. "Captain, you let them see our ship."

McCoy, still desperately sucking down oxygen, relaxed next to him, waving his hand. "Oh, he's fine."

Relief washed over the Captain. If Spock could reprimand him, then yes, he was probably just fine, and Bones' sarcasm was comforting. It was the way things were meant to be. "Good to have you back," he said, grinning.

Awaiting crew members came forward and drenched their recovered Commander in decontamination and coolant sprays, obscuring him in artificial fog. When it was safe to and Spock took his helmet off, he locked gazes with Jim, still standing by the door.

If Kirk didn't know better, he would have said his cold Vulcan eyes burned as they glared at him.

…

For a man who had chosen a career that was, for the most part, sedentary, Dr. McCoy was a fit man, and Spock suspected that spending very much time on this particular ship would only serve to make him more so. When he wasn't climbing, swimming or running for his life as he had so recently been required to do on Nibiru, it seemed he was constantly chasing after wayward patients rather than waiting for them to come to him. He grumbled, quite profusely, about the need to do this, citing his age as reason for some sympathy, but he only grumbled _more_ when left in his Sickbay too long. The general consensus was that he just enjoyed grumbling, and would do so no matter the circumstances. Dr. McCoy hated the comparison, but many of the crew had taken to thinking of him as a favorite uncle who was outwardly a bit of a grouch, but who was secretly very affectionate. Everyone was rather fond of him.

Speaking for himself, Spock found it rather hard to see the charm of the older man's personality when he was on the receiving end of one of his little crusades.

"No, doctor," he said for what felt like what must have been nearly the hundredth time, certain that it would not be the last. He looked over the slim PADD handed to him by an Ensign, signed it and handed it back. The whole time he felt the doctor's stormy gaze on him, stubbornly unmoving, if silent. Spock ignored him in a vain hope McCoy would give up and leave, and the Ensign wisely chose not to note the byplay between the two officers.

When he looked back up and around his suspicion was confirmed. There stood the good doctor, in his short sleeved medical blues and leaning in the corridor like a belligerent wallflower. "Why are you so resistant, Spock? It's not as though I'm asking you to undergo a painful procedure."

_Perhaps not from a human perspective,_ he thought, keeping his face neutral. "Because it is unnecessary," he replied. "I would be taking the time of trained medical personnel. Time better spent where their expertise would be of some real service." And without any further leave taking than that, Spock turned on his heel and strode away. They were between missions, on a return trip to Starfleet HQ and there was a lot to be done and checked over before they arrived.

He wasn't particularly surprised when he heard McCoy fall into step behind him.

"Uh huh," McCoy's voice floated to him. "Or maybe you're just worried that if you go, I'll be proven right."

Spock didn't break stride to answer. "'Right,' doctor? I wasn't aware you had forwarded a theory."

"You know very well what I'm referring to, hobgoblin," the doctor snapped. Still trailing behind the quick pacing Spock, McCoy took hold of Spock's elbow, making him stop. He never got the chance to close his fingers around the joint as the slightest pressure got him to halt and turn, dislodging the unwanted touch.

McCoy stared up at him. "We both know that your people tend to be very close mouthed when it comes to anything pertaining to yourselves," he said, voice pitched low for an assurance of privacy. "That includes medicine. What _I_ know about unique Vulcan systems could fit in the palm of my hand, and don't think that's not a blow to my professional pride. But lately some things have been filtering through the grapevine." He paused for a moment to glance up and down the hall, checking to make sure there were none near enough to overhear.

When he was sure they were still private, he continued. "Quite frankly I don't understand half of it. And the half I do understand I'm not sure I believe. All too much science fiction and too little science fact. But what there is has me concerned. About the strain stemming from what happened to Vulcan, the unprecedented… _volume_ of deaths having adverse effects on the survivors. And not in the same sense as a human," he added darkly. "Has something to do with your mental hoodoo, about the strain being too much for individual minds…"

The doctor trailed away, at a loss as to how to continue. Spock remained silent, allowing him to finish what he'd started.

"I just… want to be sure you're alright," McCoy finished awkwardly. "Some of the reports I've heard of other Vulcans unable to cope… they weren't pretty."

Spock took a breath, reminding himself that he'd known this was what McCoy been dancing around for some time. Nothing had changed. "Your concern is gratifying, doctor," he replied when he was sure his voice was steady. "But it is also misplaced. I am aware of the danger I and every other Vulcan survivor faces, and you may be assured that I am quite safe."

McCoy did not look satisfied, but Spock doubted he would get that expression to budge even with the warp coil.

When he turned to leave again, McCoy did not follow.

…

The walk away from Admiral Pike's office was a stark contrast to the walk towards it, not an hour before. The stroll in had been easy, energetic. Kirk had looked forward to the meeting with anticipation, his ambitions soaring. How often was it that ships were called back to Starfleet HQ rather than having important communications sent to them? Obviously it was something _so_ important that it couldn't be left to transmissions. Going in, it had seemed just as obvious that whatever it was that had the _Enterprise_ coming back in was positive rather than negative. He and his crew were on a golden run, had been since practically day one. They were indomitable.

"_You think you're infallible."_

Nothing could touch them.

"_You think you can't make a mistake."_

Nothing could stop them.

"_That's your problem."_

_Observe, then, how the mighty come crashing back to Earth,_ he thought bitterly.

The exact same walk taken in jubilant optimism can quadruple its distance when blighted by shock and disappointment. Where before Jim had smiled and greeted his fellow uniforms in passing, throwing out his signature grin to all and sundry, now he walked quickly, and with purpose. What purpose that was, exactly, he wasn't sure himself. For now he was more concerned with what he was putting distance between himself with – Pike – than his destination. He paid no attention to where his feet were taking him or the world as it passed him by, lost in his own churning thoughts.

People in his path, again in stark contrast to his incoming journey, tacitly maneuvered themselves out of his way, recognizing the thunderclouds hanging over him.

Jim couldn't remember the last time he'd been so angry. Angry enough that the fury spilt over all boundaries, limited to no single thing or person. Pike, Starfleet, Nibiru, Spock, the burning ember touched them all and more. Out of them all, though, he was probably the most furious, the most bitterly disappointed in himself.

The youngest starship Captain in history, Captain of the flagship of the Fleet, the only one to 'solve' the Kobayashi Maru and the rescuer of Earth… and now what? Not the glorious, treasured five year mission of exploring deep space, with nothing but his ship, his crew and an endless expanse of stars to accompany him. No. Instead he was knocked back to a cadet, lower than his lowliest Ensign, to work his way up through the ranks. And though he might seethe and throw out blame in every direction – at Pike for the personal dressing down he's given and his flip-flopping expectations of him, at Starfleet for their narrow, inflexible views, even at Nibiru for being the one mistake that cost him his Captaincy – he knew the true reason was his own actions. He'd brought it all down on himself, he knew that. Even if Jim had been as dense as the _Enterprise_'s hull, Pike had been oh-so good enough to spell it out for him.

"_You think the rules don't apply to you because you disagree with them."_

_Rules and regulations_, Jim thought with a twist of his lips. _All part and parcel to the glamorous life of a Starfleet officer. _

Ask any number of law enforcement officers back in Iowa if they thought James T. Kirk would make it as a Fleet Captain and they would have made themselves sick with laughing, citing records as long as their own arms, filled with minor offences and delinquencies. To them 'Jim Kirk' and 'rules' were completely incongruous.

And he was only proving them right, it seemed. Back in Iowa he had set himself to that very task, of proving that in the grand scheme of things 'rules' were to the immovable object as 'Kirk' was to the unstoppable force: one could not exist in the same reality with the other. Where there was Jim Kirk, rules and regs would cease to be. And that despite that, despite not giving two damns for the red tape of life, he could still dance circles around anyone else; in exam scores, in physical feats, in anything he put his mind to. It was how he worked, what he enjoyed being: the best around without kowtowing to anyone or anything.

Applying that same _modus operandi_ in Starfleet, that was having mixed results at best. On one hand, he saved two planets in a ridiculously short span of time. On the other it got him kicked back to the Academy, lost him immeasurable value of respect in the Admiralty and did untold damage to his career.

Tramping along the neat and trim lawns, surrounded by the neat and trim buildings, Jim reflected that _here_, everything was simple, easy, laid out. Here at the heart of Starfleet where everything ran on a schedule, regulations were easy to stick to. Out in the wide universe, things weren't so simple. Missions didn't always go like their simulations. The universe didn't follow the rules that Starfleet worshipped. To function out in that universe, sometimes the rules had to change.

What the hell had he been expected to do? Sure, the regulations were there in black and white, non-interference and all that jazz. But really, was he supposed to just stand back and watch an entire species wiped out, their burgeoning civilization sent back to the days of fish and crawling amphibians? If following the regs meant selling out his morals, then the Admiralty could shove it. Following the rules while being ethically bankrupt did _not_ fit his idea of Starfleet. He could live with breaking rules to save lives.

Still not bothering to take note of where his feet were taking him, he reflected that it was probably a very good thing that Spock had been excused from Pike's office before he had, and had long since gone to his own business. He wasn't around for Jim to curse at, uselessly and probably undeservedly. Spock ran on rules, practically breathed them. If he were honest, he should have known the Vulcan would have filed a report with Starfleet. It was procedure, and procedure was what Spock _did_.

Hell, Spock had been willing to follow those damnable General Orders even at the cost of his own life! When he was beamed back aboard and had realized what would have needed to take place to make that so, Jim was certain he had seen anger simmering in his eyes. Not since that little unfortunate incident on the Bridge had he seen evidence of strong emotion in his friend.

It seemed odd to Jim that Spock would allow himself to get angry over a broken rule. Even if it was the Prime Directive, it seemed inconsistent. He'd allowed for the bending of that rule gracefully enough, once the priorities were shifted for him, so he was willing to believe that the Vulcan's view of regulations versus personal morality was similar to his own, though he was a little less willing to throw the Orders to the wind when they didn't match up.

Why he would almost lose his precious control over a broken rule, when his own view of them was probably a lot more flexible than he liked to let on, and when he _knew_ Jim's record on such things… It seemed more personal, something closer to home to get him to react like that. Almost as though he resented being rescued.

Distracted, still reeling from his sudden demotion, Jim gave it no more thought, and let his feet take him where they would.

…

The world was coming apart at the seams, and Spock was coming apart with it.

Distantly he could hear a commotion, knew it was so near that he might be swept back up into it at any moment, at the smallest of changes in the battle raging around him. He could hear it clearly, the shouted orders punctuated by screams, the raining crashes of shattered glass and the whine of tortured metal, and over all of it, the staccato bursts of weapons fire, from the jumpship hovering just outside the windows of the Starfleet council room and the answering shots from those able to find weapons and mount a haphazard defense.

Spock could hear it all, but it just washed around him. He was lost in his own personal storm, his footing temporarily lost and himself set adrift.

Confusion and fear threatened to overwhelm the Vulcan completely. The control over his own emotions had left him, and there was no hiding from the stark terror that now stared him in the face. He was frightened, horribly, terribly frightened of the death that was even now encroaching on his consciousness. He was confused, his senses a swirl and his grip on reality quickly crumbling.

_I am dying_, the thought flashed, startlingly clear and tinged with disbelief. _I am dying. So quickly. How… could I be killed so quickly?_

For a moment the fear was almost drowned in anger swelling up in him. He was dying? Now, like this? After all he had been through, _this_ was what was going to finally take him down? It was like being killed in your own bed.

But anger could not last forever. It sustained him for a brief time, held back the blackness pressing in on him, and fired his blood with a last-ditch rush of adrenaline… all for naught.

It drained away, left him bereft of all – the fear, the anger, the confusion, even the pain, little as there was – until all there was, was echoing loneliness.

.

Spock blinked, and pulled his hand away from Admiral Pike's face, his fingertips breaking the connection with the very specific nerve clusters that had allowed him to meld with his mind.

Coming away from the intimate contact with the dying man, the world around him took on a startling clarity. The noise of battle rang louder than ever, the smell of dust, burning ozone and human blood all assaulted him, and he became aware of how the floor trembled with the impact of shots from their attacker.

Admiral Pike, deceased, stared at Spock with empty eyes, far beyond the cacophony of emotion that had assailed him moments before. In trying to comfort him, Spock had instead shared his final throes.

For a moment, all Spock could do was stare, the 'aftertaste' of death heavy in his mind.

When the sounds of battle abruptly diminished, he did not respond. When he heard and felt another presence come upon him and the Admiral's body in their shielded corner, he only spared them a glance, enough to see that it was Capt—First Officer Kirk.

Without a word the man leaned across, pressed his fingers to Pike's throat, searching for a pulse. Spock knew that he would find none.

Fresh off of a mind meld, Spock could almost feel the raw emotion rolling off his former Captain. His barriers were too recently breached to fully shut out what Kirk was feeling, standing so near to him.

And when, still too dazed to avoid it, Kirk touched his shoulder, Spock was washed with everything the other man felt, even through his uniform. It was remarkably similar to Pike's final moments, with the addition of bitterness and guilt. It was a confused muddle, but Spock could still make out a single clear thought.

_Another father lost._

…

"_I was authorized to _end_ you."_

Jim wondered at himself. He found he'd been doing that a lot of late, and didn't know whether that said more about his state of mind or the kind of situations he was consistently finding himself in. Was nothing so simple anymore that he could get away without questioning his own motivations, in addition to everyone else's?

"_The only reason you're still alive is because I am _allowing_ it."_

He had in his custody the man who was responsible for the explosion in London, and who had attacked the Starfleet building where so many high ranking officials had been meeting. The one who had killed Christopher Pike. Kirk had him, and had been all but ordered to kill him on sight.

And he was still alive. Kirk had him in the brig as a prisoner, intent on dragging him back to Earth for trial.

Kirk wanted him dead, this John Harrison. It almost frightened him, the intensity with which he wanted to see him cold and bloody. He'd nearly beaten him to a pulp with his own fists on the surface of Kronos before coming to his senses. Or rather before his arm had tired and he'd been forced to stop. The look of pity he'd gotten from Harrison, apparently unhurt by the beating that had exhausted Jim, had almost gotten him to begin the beating all over again, exhaustion be hanged.

Looking at him, his smug face and scheming eyes, all he could see was Admiral Pike; his empty gaze when Jim had found him with Spock, staring into the world beyond, where none could follow.

And yet he still lived. Jim had not killed him though every fiber begged to strangle the life out of him. He could say that Spock had convinced him to capture rather than exterminate the man called Harrison. Though it went against their orders, Spock had fought for that, making the distinction between following orders and doing what was morally right. Given the chance to allow that to sink in, Kirk agreed. After all, it was the same reasoning Jim had applied to saving the Nibirans, and Spock – though the stubborn Vulcan still refused to see that side of it.

He _could_ make that argument, it was what he allowed the crew to believe, but in his heart of hearts he knew it to be. What _was_ truth, Jim still wasn't sure.

"_Why _did_ you 'allow' me to live?"_

Possibly it was because of another point that Spock had made, that Jim had felt in his gut from the moment Admiral Marcus had given the order, which gave him pause. There were no regulations that condemned a being to death without a trial, no matter their crime. Marcus' order, then… There was something wrong with it. Something that made Jim's instincts jangle.

"_Why do you continue to do so?"_

Or was it because it was an order, and orders were meant to be broken? Had he gone so far as to defy orders simply for the sake of breaking them?

"_There's a pattern with you, that rules are for other people."_

Or was it the same reason he couldn't seem to allow _any_ death around him, even if he thought it was deserved?

"_Despite your attempt to convince me otherwise, you seem to have a conscience, Mr. Kirk."_

Defying orders and saving lives. The two seemed to go hand in hand. But he wondered now if it wouldn't have been better to follow his instructions and kill the man in the brig.

"_We all make mistakes."_

Had he made a mistake?

…

"_If you can't break a rule, how can you be expected to break bone?"_

With a sickening crunch, Khan's arm snapped in two. The man screamed in agony.

Spock felt joy, dark and bloody joy to know that he was hurting Khan. He would have smiled, would have shown such base emotion at another's suffering, and not cared in the least if anyone had seen. It was but one of many rampant emotions he was feeling, and they fuelled him as he continued to attack the 'enhanced' human. He'd said that Spock would be incapable of fighting without thinking, of functioning on a savage, gut level.

There was little enough running through Spock's mind, now.

Emotion coursed through him, rage foremost among them, hot and metallic in his veins. It was that rage that had him run Khan down, that had him pinning him down and pummeling his face to a raw welt, striking over and over and over with no intention of stopping. Khan had said he would be incapable of this. How fitting that it was by a result of his own actions that he was proved wrong.

There was only one thought that Spock clung to in his haze of bloodlust and rage.

Kirk. Jim. His Captain and his friend, lying dead before him. So close, only the transparency had separated them, and yet he'd been unable to help as he watched his life drain away.

Spock's older self had said that to go against Khan would mean losing lives, and though he did not say so, Spock had felt, had _known_ that if any lives were to be lost, it would have been his own.

And he had accepted that. Just as he had on Nibiru, Spock had accepted those terms: the trading of his life for the lives of others. It was an honorable way to die, and even more so now than on that planet. It was a sacrifice he would be glad to make if it meant the rest of the crew, the men and women he had come to know would be safe.

"_I did what you would have done."_

It shouldn't have been Kirk, it was supposed to be Spock who died, not Kirk! He knew it, deep in his bones with a certainty that bordered on madness. It was wrong, all mixed up, and it made the primitive fury of his ancestors – of both races – boil up to the surface.

Kirk… _Jim_ had saved him on Nibiru, throwing all of the rules to the wind, because Spock was his friend. Now, when Spock could not do the same, he was throwing every rule, professional and personal, to those same winds for the sake of revenge. Because Jim was his friend.

_Friend_. Such a shallow word for the depth of trust and loyalty that had developed between them, even in so short a span. Vulcans had a much more appropriate word for it.

So he was finally breaking rules. Breaking bone. Ready to kill.

He might have killed Khan with nothing more than his bare hands. The thrumming rage in his blood demanded it, beating in his temples, screaming for Khan to die, die for all he had done. For Jim.

But another voice, barely audible, called him back, stopped his onslaught with perhaps the only thing that could have cut through his blind fury.

"Spock – stop! He's our only chance to save Kirk!"

…

"Spock, you look like you're about to keel over on the spot. Why don't you head home for some rest, and I'll let you know if there are any changes?"

It took a moment before Spock, absorbed in his work, looked up at the hovering Dr. McCoy. He raised a brow, and in a bland, almost lecturing tone, he replied. "Vulcans require notably less sleep than humans, doctor. I assure you that I am quite well and do not require rest at this time."

"Yeah, and I'm a Klingon diplomat," McCoy muttered to himself. It probably wasn't meant to be heard, but Spock's ears picked it up, nonetheless.

It was a small room, which McCoy was doing his best to get Spock to leave. Small and white and almost entirely given to functionality rather than to aesthetics. In almost two weeks of remaining in this room, Spock had come to know it very well, though it had hardly taken that long to become familiar with it. One chair in particular he had become very familiar with, sitting in it for hours at a time at the bedside of the third and last occupant of the room.

Jim Kirk's hospital room, clean and housing some of the most advanced medical technology available, was not under any sort of quarantine. There was no danger of contamination, either for the unconscious Captain or anyone else, so many of the _Enterprise_ crew, most notably the Bridge crew, had been in to see him at least once. In many cases the sight of their Captain all but dead and showing no signs of waking was enough to have them leaving again almost immediately. If that wasn't enough, then McCoy's protective pestering usually was.

With the exception of Spock. In ten days the First Officer had only left the room when there had been absolutely no other choice, and those had been precious few. He remained in that room, near his Captain, and none could budge him.

Though not for lack of trying. "Vulcans may need _less_ sleep than us slovenly humans," McCoy's tone was acerbic, "but you still need _some_ rest, though you might pretend to be as sensitive as a heap of stones. Sitting in here and fretting will do Jim no good, and will only end up giving me _two_ idiots to try and treat instead of one."

"I am not fretting," Spock said blandly, turning his attention back to the PADD in his hand. "I am simply using my time efficiently."

"Efficiently?"

"Of course. While the _Enterprise_ is undergoing repairs there is a neigh on unending list of tasks to attend, nearly all of them supervisory. There are reports to read, as well as to make, manifests to approve and supplies to requisition. These are all things that can be attended to from any location, and so I choose to do so here. My first responsibility is to the Captain, after all, and I intend to know when he regains consciousness as soon as it happens."

"And on those occasions when your physical presence is required…?"

"On such occasions it is a simple enough matter to delegate representatives."

McCoy tossed his hands in the air. This wasn't the first time he had tried to convince Spock to get some sleep, but every time he met with the same amount of success: none. He wasn't as willing to put so much effort into it anymore when he knew it would do no good. Nor was he was willing to call the Vulcan out on his motivations in staying by Jim's side constantly, even after he had told him – repeatedly – that he would call him as soon as the young Captain opened his eyes.

Instead, McCoy turned his attention to the various monitors that showed Jim's vitals, taking in each reading individually and then as a whole. He began speaking aloud, as though to himself, about what he found, and not at all as though he were passing information along that was greatly desired.

Spock appreciated the nod at discretion.

"He's still pretty out of it. The latest bout of antirejection shots don't seem to have done much more than the last. Not any worse, but not any better, either. Figures that he would be difficult even when unconscious, the little…" McCoy trailed away into a spout of names and colorful metaphors.

It was hard to know for certain which Jim's body rejected harder: the serum that Dr. McCoy had made from Khan's blood or the transfusion he had needed to save what little had escaped the direct radiation damage. The fact that he was rejecting both was not in question. He'd been doing that with surprising energy since getting him on table. The fact that they had gotten his body to respond at all was astonishing. Spock would have said impossible with the amount of damage that had been done.

Jim had been indisputably dead, and somehow, brought back to life again. It defied all reason, and Spock almost felt resentful that the recovery was mostly thanks to Khan.

It seemed like a slap in the face that Kirk might still die, unless they could convince his body to accept what they were giving it.

The day passed for Spock in a flurry of reports all taken care of from his PADD. He hadn't been lying when he told McCoy that there was a lot of work to attend to. But until the major reconstruction of the ship was done, there was little for the majority of the crew to do aboard her, including Spock. For the time being, what they were required to do centered around documentation and preparation. Those directly involved for the moment were those in the Engineering and Security Divisions, bunked up at the dry dock with their injured lady. And as for any higher ranking officers wanting a debriefing from Spock in person… they were remaining notably quiet until Captain Kirk recovered enough to attend with him.

After McCoy's initial visit there were several more from him and from nurses, each of them staying only long enough to read the equipment and to refresh the fluids and medications feeding into Kirk's veins. None save McCoy spoke to Spock, the rest coming and going in silence, and today there were no visitors.

Spock remained, leaving only to eat or relieve himself. When visiting hours were over, no one dared ask him to leave, nor when the sun went down. If his reputation weren't enough, then the word Dr. McCoy had put in with the hospital kept the staff from troubling him.

As the hospital grew quiet around him and the constant stream of paperwork began to thin, Spock became more aware of his surroundings, and of the man laid out supine on the bed, breathing deep and slow. Allowing his eyes to rest on his Captain for more than a handful of seconds together for the first time that day, Spock set aside his PADD.

In all of his time in this room, seated beside the unconscious Captain, only McCoy had ever come close to accusing him of showing concern. Of course Spock would never admit to his presence being anything more than pragmatic and logical, something that any First Officer would do for his Captain should they be in a similar position. But he didn't _have_ to admit to anything. It was obvious that those who came in to see the Captain for themselves, and who glanced in Spock's direction, saw him seated at his post like a sentry, they understood without having to ask a thing

Perhaps the most notable individual in her diplomatic silence was Nyota. In the flurry of activity that had overtaken their ship after taking Khan aboard, there had been little enough time to speak. Once Khan had been captured a second time, there had been too much to do, too little time to extract blood, to formulate the serum, and begin the long process of reviving Kirk… there had been too much to spare any attention for Nyota.

When at last the issue of Kirk was no longer a matter that took every ounce of his energy, Spock noticed that Nyota was unusually quiet. She had been emotional for some time, as her outburst in the K'normian craft over the surface of Kronos had demonstrated quite effectively, and he was inclined to believe that this was simply more of the same. It was her habit to remain closed off from him until she felt she could adequately express herself, or until she could no longer restrain whatever thoughts she had on what was bothering her. Spock had been preparing himself for what might come from her, though he wasn't certain what it would be. A continuation, perhaps, of what she had begun on the craft, her concerns over his affection or lack thereof. He'd hoped he had already explained that well enough, but kept it in mind as a possibility.

But Nyota, even when the opportunity arose, said nothing. What was more, Spock noticed a difference in her demeanor between now and before.

Before she had been quiet, but quite obviously upset and restraining herself. It showed in everything from her tone of voice to her body language that her mind was elsewhere. Though she may still carry out her duties, her heart wasn't in it. Something distracted her, and that something focused on Spock.

Now she seemed almost… defeated. It was such a startling contrast that, for a moment, Spock had actually been a little frightened. It was not in Nyota Uhura's nature to show defeat. It was a strength that she shared with every member of her crew, that made them all seem more like family, rather than co-workers: even when they were beaten to the very dust, they never lay down. To see even a hint of defeat lurking in the corners of her eyes was enough to set off warning bells.

Except it wasn't defeat alone. In truth, when Spock had approached her and attempted to open some sort of dialogue to ascertain what the problem was, he received a very different second impression. Once speaking with her, she had seemed less defeated, and more tired. Exhausted, really, and small wonder, and just a touch… sad.

Standing together in her temporary quarters, Spock had made the offer of sharing a bed that night, an action that she appreciated, found comforting, but which he rarely initiated, in the hopes that it would please her.

She had smiled, but shook her head. "You would be here in body," she said. "But your mind would be far away. One without the other would do neither of us very much good."

She was smiling, Spock realized, but it was a lie. Armor she wore to protect herself.

Her voice was steady, but oddly thick. "It would do _me_ no good to have your warmth beside me but your thoughts somewhere else entirely. It would do you no good to try and be with me and with someone else at the same time. You cannot be in two places at once, Spock, and to try and divide yourself will only frustrate you." She sighed, her eyes dropping down to the floor. "Perhaps having you there will do him no good, either, but at least he would have all of you together. So, go be with Kirk."

And he had left, silently. There was nothing he could say to ease what she felt, and would only make the situation more awkward for them both. She had been clear enough, and he would not insult her by pretending not to understand her meaning.

Something had changed in that room, between the two of them.

Her focus was on Spock, but Spock's focus was on Kirk.

He stared at Kirk, his face so relaxed he might only have been sleeping, and wondered. Wondered if he would live or die, what would happen in either eventuality, what had driven him to such foolish actions, what it was that _always_ drove him to such foolish actions, and how it was this single man seemed to be turning Spock's entire life on its ear.

Not for the first time, and he was sure it was not the last, he wished he could speak with his elder self. He wanted his thoughts, his opinions, and his remembrances of the _Enterprise_ he had known, of her Captain. But he knew that should he bend to the temptation, the elder Spock would tell him nothing. Knowledge, however, it did not stem the desire.

Had _that_ Spock sat here, or in a place very like this, staring at _his_ Captain, and wondered if he would live or die? Had _he_ nearly beaten Khan to death with his fists because he had killed Kirk? As he pondered his future, had he decided that should the Captain die, he would not return to the _Enterprise_, because without Jim Kirk there _was_ no _Enterprise_?

Spock found himself wondering how parallel their fates really were, and almost smiled. Jim would berate him for such ponderings if he knew of them. He didn't believe in fate, or luck. He was a very driven man, trusting only what he or his crew could carve out for themselves, not predetermination or happy chances.

Thinking of that, and of the many traits that made Kirk unique, Spock felt a wash of loneliness, and a hint of desperation. _What would he do if Kirk died?_

Spock moved from his place so he was closer to the unconscious Captain, near his head.

There was another way to see how well Kirk was recovering, if he was losing or winning this battle, if the personality of Jim Kirk was even still present. There was a way, and Spock's hand fairly itched, fingertips tingling with readiness…

Spock hesitated. Out of uncertainty, perhaps, of what he might find, of the invasiveness of what he was about to do. Sharing thoughts was no light matter, and he had done so with Pike as a desperate means of rescuing him, though it had failed. And unconscious as Kirk was, it would have to be an even closer connection, one of the mind itself, not just thought and surface impressions. Unconscious, there _were_ no fully formed thoughts to share. Depending on the state of Kirk's mind, the connection might have to go even deeper than that. Or it might fail entirely.

He hesitated, his hand already hovering in place over Kirk's face, and he wished, illogically, that he could have seen Kirk's eyes, blue and shining with incorrigible human mischief, to reassure him.

Light as a breath, Spock's fingers found the nerve points and began a meld.

…

Space. Jim felt he'd always had a special kind of relationship with it. Both mother and father had been members of Starfleet, and spent a significant portion of their time among the stars, and he himself had been born in the void, aboard a tiny craft, a microscopic speck of life and warmth.

During his many years growing up in the endless corn fields of Iowa, there had been little to either hold his interest or stir his imagination. He'd left trapped, bound to the dirt and farms and destined for nothing more than to become an embittered old man, sun baked and dried out with the blowing dust of a place that had never felt like home. Even then, he'd found his comfort had been in gazing up at the heavens, in letting his imagination take flight amongst the stars. At least the skies of Iowa were wide and open. If he drove out into those fields, found a place that was quiet and empty – easy enough to accomplish – and laid out on his back, gazing up, then he could almost forget that he was bound by gravity. Beneath a sky that went on for eternity, Jim swam through the stars, held aloft by the joy that he was no longer _down there_. He was free. In his mind, he was one of those stars, burning through space with no one to stop him.

Then came Starfleet, the chance to not just _dream_, but to _be_. The chance to really be amongst the stars he had been so close to since birth, the one place he could escape to, away from the dust and dreariness of Iowa. He'd soared high, nothing to hold him back…

And he had fallen. He was Icarus, the wings of spun dreams burned away by his hubris.

Space was a terrifying place when there were no stars to fill it.

Jim didn't know where he was anymore. It was an empty place. He saw nothing, heard nothing, smelt nothing and felt nothing. He was barely aware of himself, that there was even a self to be aware _of_. Even his feelings were vague, oddly diffuse. It was as though he were a drop, a small measure of liquid self, the consciousness that was Jim Kirk, plunged into a glass of water. In that full glass, only one part in a million was Kirk, and there was no way to bring himself into higher concentration. There was a slight urge, an impression that he _should_ fight, that if he fought back just a little, then it would be easier to continue to do so, he would begin to come back together.

But he was tired. It seemed all he had ever done was fight, in battles either outside or inside himself. He had done his fighting, and now he was tired. He wanted to rest.

Something touched him.

There was distant surprise. He hadn't thought there was enough of him for something _to_ touch, let alone that there existed anything that could touch him. Instinctively, he tried to move away, though he wasn't sure how he was doing so without a body.

Whatever it was, it did not go away. In fact, it held on to him, refusing to be separated. Jim did not struggle to get free. There seemed no point in it. Easier to ignore whatever was holding him and let himself disperse even further, until there was nothing, no part that remembered being James T. Kirk.

Except that the thing, whatever it was, was not letting itself be ignored. It prodded at him, annoyed him, it made Jim more aware and more cognizant. It was like being shaken awake out of a deep, thick slumber, but still not quite coming awake.

Jim didn't want to wake up, and used the little focus he regained from the shaking to resist it.

Whatever resistance he put up was pitiful before the force that was dragging him out of dispersed oblivion. In fact the more he struggled, the more Jim thought he could feel something coming off of the thing dragging him forward. Not quite happiness, but close. Satisfaction, maybe, a little relief.

There was no way of knowing how much time was passing. Like everything else, the concept was a vague one, only precariously connected to reality. It did not seem that very much _could_ have passed, and yet with this new presence constantly pestering him, it also seemed as though a very much _must_ have. Jim was growing even more tired than before, but he was also growing angry, and his anger revitalized him. It made him fight back, and he woke more.

All at once, he recognized what it was that was irritating him, getting his mind to kick into gear. There was still no face, no body or voice for him to place. But he could _feel_, and somehow that resolved itself into something recognizable.

_Spock!_

Jim clung to the bodiless presence that somehow was, undoubtedly, Spock. Had he possessed a body, Spock would have stiffened under the abrupt 'contact,' and Jim felt him do something similar, even so. But he did not let go.

Memories were coming back to him, memories of the last time he had seen Spock and what had happened. The pain, the fear, the encroaching darkness that now engulfed them both, the nearness of his friend while still being unable to even touch his hand…

No, he would not let go.

With clarity he had never known in waking, Jim knew he could never let Spock go. He _needed_ Spock in a way he had never needed anyone before in his life, or perhaps had just never allowed himself to see. He was one of those stars that he loved so much, burning through the night on wings spun of dreams, but stars burned. They burned themselves away until there was nothing left. That was what Jim was, he knew it. How many times had he burned himself to practically nothing?

He needed Spock. He was Jim's rock, the one person he could always come back to and depend on, his steady place. As Jim soared high, Spock was the one he knew could soar with him and still keep him firmly anchored. His tether to reality.

He'd asked Spock how he could choose not to feel, how not to be afraid. Holding on tight, surrounded by the bodiless presence that was his friend, he realized that with Spock beside him, he wasn't afraid. Space without stars was terrifying, but less so with a steady friend.

Jim felt the surprise in Spock, the uncertainty… and then as he relaxed again. Unexpectedly, something like affection radiated from the Vulcan presence, rueful and possessive at once. The grip that had pulled him closer to waking, to more of himself and less of a dilute solution, simultaneously gentled and grew stronger than ever. There was no chance of escape, but Jim wasn't looking for one.

…

Jim opened his eyes.

In four days, he had made a remarkable recovery, going from a standstill in his treatment, tottering on the edge of a coma, to a full and energetic rebound.

"I died," and his tone was wondering.

McCoy was there, and he explained it.

Except he didn't. He couldn't. Even if all to be told was strictly medical, he could not. To explain even that much would have taken as much time as the recovery itself, and there was more. Jim had a fuzzy kind of memory, and even if he understood it, he wasn't sure there was an _explanation_ for it.

Spock was there, and Jim felt the invisible smile from across the room.

"You saved my life."

And it was true, but not because of Khan.

"You saved mine."

And it was true, for the fingers of his hand did not fidget to feel the bloody sands of his home, still caked on his hands.

Jim smiled, a mischievous gleam in his eye. "You know, Spock. You almost make me believe in luck."

The replying smile he felt, he could almost see. "And you almost make me believe in miracles."

…

_**A/N2:**__ To be honest, I'm extremely nervous with how this came out. But in any case, __**thanks for reading!**_


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